Night of the Old One
by Alixtii
Summary: Illyria moves to Cleveland where she finds old friends and older enemies. Book I of DARK CHAMPIONS.
1. We'll Always Have Paris

**Title: **Night of the Old One (1/5)  
**Author: **Alixtii  
**Timeline: **Post-NFA. Book I of _Dark Champions_.  
**Spoilers: **All of _Buffy_ and _Angel.  
_**Characters: **Faith, Illyria, Drusilla, Lilah, Andrew.  
**Disclaimer: **Joss owns everything. Yeah, even that.  
**A/N: **Those of you who remember the screenplay version of _Dark Champions_ will know the plot here. Sooner or later I'll get around to new episodes.

_

* * *

Illyria looks around at the rows of offices which surround her on all sides. "The wolf, the ram, and the hart," she says, recognizing it as the place she spent so much of her life those weeks in L.A. "This was destroyed." _

_"Twice actually," says a woman behind her. "But they keep coming back, like that cat in the song?"_

_Illyria examines her surrounding. Every detail intact, exactly as it was. "What is this?"_

_"Remember that moment in_ Casablanca _when Humphrey Bogart says to Ingrid Bergman, 'We'll always have Paris'? Of course you do, because Wesley and I watched it together, and you have my memories. Well, this is Paris. Only not literally. Although I do hear the Paris branch of Wolfram & Hart does look a lot like this."_

_"These are memories," Illyria realizes, as she feels the texture of a potted fern in a corner. "Mental recreations of past events. Illusions."_

_"Evidently my brain still works. Good to know."_

_For the first time, Illyria turns and faces the woman. She is a slender brunette in an attractive brown sundress. But Illyria's eyes are drawn to the woman's face, which is a mirror image of her own, except it is missing the characteristic strokes of blue which set Illyria apart from all humanity. "You are_ _her. The shell."_

_Fred shakes her head, chidingly. "No, actually,_ you _are the shell. I just happen to be its previous owner."_

_"You were destroyed," Illyria insists. "In the Fires of Resurrection."_

_Fred just shrugs. "Just my soul. There's more to me than just that. Like my memories, which lives on in you. And my personality, which most emphatically does not. The soul is important, but not everything. Just ask any vampire."_

_Illyria puts on her most superior air, one designed to cow even the most belligerent creature into submission. "I am not a half-breed."_

_"My body and your . . . whatever. Two sets of memories—three, even. Sounds like a hybrid to me."_

_Illyria frowns. "This illusion, it displeases me. This mental labyrinth, this—"_

_"Dream?"_

_"I do not dream."_

_Fred doesn't seem to be all that intimidated. "Perhaps not," she admitted, agreeably. "But I do, and you're stuck with my body now. And while you're at it, you might want to stay away from anchovies. I'm allergic."_

_Illyria looks around at the offices of Wolfram & Hart, L.A. branch. Where can she escape from this barrage of memories, these mental recriminations? "I wish this to end."_

_Fred smiles. "I'm not really a vengeance demon or anything like that. But—" She shrugs. "Wish granted."_

_

* * *

_

Illyria emitted a startled gasp as her blue eyes suddenly snapped open. Exhaling slowly, she looked around. She was back in Cleveland, in her small apartment. In her own bed, so many miles from L.A. and all it represented. She was safe, she assured herself, even as she could feel the shame burn through her. How she had fallen .

Now awake, she got out of bed, pausing only long enough to modulate her form so that the naked flesh of the shell's body is clothed by her red and blue outfit. The costume of a king, she reminded herself. Even if her kingdom had long ago been destroyed.

* * *

Alec and his buddies were prowling the street, looking for any easy human meal to feed upon. Unfortunately, the dark alleys of Cleveland seemed to be empty this night, and the chances of them going hungry seemed to be getting greater and greater. 

Suddenly, Eddie—the unofficial leader of the trio—spoke up. "Look, boys, it's the Blue Fairy."

Alec looked in the direction Eddie was pointing. Indeed, a single woman was making her way down the street. Her hair seemed to be died with some rather outrageous blue highlights, and there was what seemed to have some type of blue makeup on her forehead. Hell, with Alec's vamp vision, it looked like she was wearing some type of blue lipstick and eyeshadow.

"Yow-ee," he agreed, looking at her. "Just look at that outfit." She was wearing some type of red and blue leather catusit which tightly hugged her not inconsiderable curves. The woman was slender and—well, she was hot. Alec didn't feel the need to deconstruct the notion any further. "Looking for some action, babe?" he asked, raising his voice so he would know she could hear him.

The woman cocked her head, looking at them strangely. "I am disturbed," she said at last. "I wish to engage in violence."

The three vampires looked at each other, grinning. "Happy to oblige," said Malcolm as all three vamped out.

The woman didn't seem to as much as blink as the three came after her. Instead she simply blocked their attacks, moving so fast that none of the three could manage to get their fangs into her neck. She punched Alec in the nose, and he reeled backwards, clutching his nose as she watched her backhand Malcolm with such strength he went flying across the street. He must have fallen on the park bench in such a way as to be impaled by some of the wood, because even as he landed he exploded into dust.

Eddie began backing away from her. "Wh-what are you?" he asked.

"I am Illyria," she answered, grabbing his hair and lifting him off the ground. "The ancient source of all destruction." She grabbed his shoulder and ripped his head off. Dust.

By this time, Alec was already running as quickly as he could, and he didn't stop until he was halfway across Cleveland.

* * *

Across the street, Faith the Vampire Slayer stood with a stake in her left hand and a cigarette in her right, watching as a strangely-dressed woman with blue hair slayed two vampires. "Now isn't that interesting," she said to herself, before taking a drag on the cigarette and exhaling it slowly. 


	2. Earthquake?

**Title: **Night of the Old One (2/5)  
**Author: **Alixtii  
**Timeline: **Post-NFA. Book I of _Dark Champions_.  
**Spoilers: **All of _Buffy_ and _Angel.  
_**Characters: **Faith, Illyria, Drusilla, Lilah, Andrew.  
**Disclaimer: **Joss owns everything. Yeah, even that.  
**A/N: **For those who missed my saying this in the last chapter's notes, yes this has been posted before in screenplay form. This site doesn't allow that format, so here it is again within the parameters allowed. Once I've reposted all the original screenplays as stories, I will begin to post new episodes in the _Dark Champions_ series.  
**A/N 2: **Thanks to a dear friend of mine for suggesting "Elvira" as a name for the cheap vampire whore at the end of this chapter. It was so obvious, so clichéd, so bad that it was absolutely perfect for the character and I had to use it. If I haven't told her enough, let me say it here: she's a genius. Or a madwoman. Probably both.

* * *

Devon Wilshire looked down at the resume in front of him. "Head of the Science Division of Wolfram & Hart's Los Angeles branch," he read. "Very impressive. May I ask why you ended your employment there?"

Wilshire's interviewee—a petite brunette named Winifred Burkle who struck him as equal parts cheerleader and nerd—simply nodded. "You may," she said, a mischevious smile on her face.

"Why did you end your employment?"

"Earthquake," Ms. Burkle answered. "The L.A. branch was totally destroyed."

"Wolfram & Hart has offices here in Cleveland," Wilshire pointed out gently. "Why didn't you go there." Best to push gently. The last thing he wanted was for her to actually decide he was right, leave the interview, and return to Wolfram & Hart. Which, if the intelligence in front of him was correct, wasn't likely, but he chose to play it cautious.

"Let's just say Wolfram & Hart and I don't see eye-to-eye anymore," she answered, remaining calm and collected and clearly choosing her words very carefully. Remembering she was in a job interview, Wilshire supposed, and that she was being evaluated on the answers she gave.

_Wolfram & Hart and I don't see eye-to-eye anymore_. That was one Wilshire simply couldn't give up. "Earthquake?" he asked her, an eye raised inquisitively. She simply returned his question with an enigmatic look.

Wilshire shrugged and continued to read the resume. "Author of 'Supersymmetry and P-Dimensional Subspace.' Remarkable. Have you ever done any work with time manipulation?"

Was that a smirk he detected? "I have some experience in that category, yes."

"Wonderful." It did seem as if she were exactly the type of candidate for which they had been looking. "Now, it says here that you've attended graduate classes at UCLA but never completed the program. May I as—" He caught himself. "Why is that?"

"I was sucked through a portal into a hell dimension for five years," she answered, completely deadpan.

Wilshire nodded. He didn't see how a thing like that could be held against her. If necessary, there would be opportunities for her to complete her education while employed at DemonTech.

He thought Winifred Burkle might just be the image of the model employee. Yes, he supposed she would fit in quite well.

* * *

"Now why don't you just explain to me what happened, Alec? Nice and slowly."

Alec nodded, took a deep breath, and began to give the details of the previous night's events. "Me and my buds were on the street, minding our own business," he explained. "We're looking for a snack, when all of a sudden this chick comes by in this tight-fitting outfit. Really hot, if you know what I mean. Only she was blue. Well, her hair was. And her eyes. And lips. And her forehead."

"And what did you do, Alec?" Edward Lanoire was Vice President of Special Projects at the Cleveland branch of Wolfram & Hart, and Eddie, Malcolm, and Alec had done a few oddjobs for the man over time. So the powerful lawyer was the natural option for Alec, still unnerved by his encounter with the blue woman the night before, to confide in.

"Well, we started hitting on her, you know," Alec answered. "Because she was like, a looker and all. But then she said—she said she was disturbed by something, and that she was looking for violence. So we decided to give her some."

"Tsk. Tsk," Lanoire said, shaking his head. "And then she dusted Malcolm and Eddie?"

"Uh-huh," Alec answered. "She threw Malcolm into a parkbench and pulled Eddie's head right off his shoulders. And then she said she was—"

"Illyria. God-king of the primordium." Alec turned around to look at the woman who had just entered Lanoire's office. She was a tall brunette in a professional-looking skirt and blouse. A matching scarf was wrapped around her neck. "Well, former god-king," the woman said.

* * *

"Former demon overlord of a thousand underworlds."

Faith looked at the elaborate woodcut in the book, squinting so she could see it more clearly. It was some type of horned beast, of the demon-so-hideous-it-strikes-fear-into-all variety. "The harbinger of incredible darkness," Andrew continued, really beginning to warm up. Faith figured that was a bad sign.

"It doesn't look like the creature I saw last night," she pointed.

"This is its true form," Andrew explained. "We don't know what form it had to take to enter our dimension. You said it was blue?"

"Yeah."

Andrew shut the book, a satisfied look on his face. "Then it was probably this," he said, straightening out (not slouching added at least two inches to his height) and crossing his arms. "Besides, Giles said there was a prophecy about this creature returning to the Hellmouth. Sunnydale is destroyed—"

"So it has to be coming here," Faith finished. "I got it." She eyed Andrew up suspiciously. "Tell me again why he couldn't have just left this information on my voice mail?"

"He felt you would be better served with my skills as a Watcher-in-Training extraordinaire, esquire, et cetera." Under Faith's relentless Slayer stare he added, "And you never check your messages."

* * *

"Our particle accelerators are capable of velocities of—well, infinity, really, but my scientists tell me that would cause the particles to gain infinite mass, causing a rift in the interdimensional fabric which would suck everything everywhere into it, which is why we don't do."

Gene Rainy's ears perked as he heard the distinctive voice of the Man Upstairs (in addition to being his boss, Devon Wilshire's office was also three stories above the lab). It was always wise to be aware when those in charge were around, even if they were spouting inane scientific facts that were only half-accurate—and who in the world was that slender woman next to Wilshire?

"It would create a miniature black hole capable of swallowing the Earth,"Gene explained, not keeping his eyes off the pretty brunette. "Not a good idea."

"Gene, this is Winifred Burkle," Wilshire introduce the woman. "She'll be working with you here. "Ms. Burkle, this is Eugene Rainy, the head of our Dimensional Fabric Research Team."

"So far, we've found out that if you use the right softener, the dimensional fabric becomes soft and fluffy with a fresh outdoor scent," he joked. Then something clicked. "Winifred Burkle? As in the author of 'Supersummetry and P-Dimensional Subspace'?"

As he watched her embarrassed nod, he could feel the blood rush to his face. This pretty girl was Winifred Burkle? And _she_ was going to work for _him_? He searched his mind for something to say. "Your analysis of heterotic theories as being flawed _a priori_ inspired this experiment. You see, I'm alternating the valuables of the distance scales—"

Wilshire cut in, smiling. "I guess I'll just leave you two alone to get acquainted," he said, and turned to leave.

"What about the feedback quotient?" Burkle asked him. "Won't the scales become inverted by the T-duality—"

"Not withing a fragment vector," he explained. He knew this. He could do it. "You see, all it requires is a modulation in the Anderson substratum. . . ."

* * *

"Once she was a being of unimagined might. Illyria ruled undisputed over a million Earths. And then there was an uprising, and it was consigned to the Deeper Well."

Lanoire frowned. The last thing he wanted right now was a history lesson. But if the Senior Partners went through all the trouble to send Lilah Morgan to Cleveland from Hell, he supposed he owed it to them to hear what she had to say to him. "But it escaped?"

Lilah shrugged. "Escaped, was let out, something. Who knows what happened, exactly? Now she's out."

"And why would the god-king of the primawhatsit be going around slaying vampires?"

"Primordium," Lilah corrected. "And the short answer is no one knows."

"The long answer?"

"When Illyria escaped from the Deeper Well, it needed to take a human host. It is now trapped in that human form. Most of its powers are gone."

"Most?" Lanoire asked. Lilah didn't answer. "Do you know who that host was?" Again, silence. Lanoire sighed and looked the dead lawyer in the eyes. "We need you to tell us everything you know, Lilah."

"You mean you need me to tell you what the Senior Partners think you should know," she corrected. "No more. They have plans for Illyria. Big plans. And the last thing they need is you messing them up."

"And the plans in L.A. went off so well," Lanoire reflected. "Where you used to work, if I remember correctly."

Lilah looked at him, and Lanoire wondered if her hellbitch-stare had been just as withering when she had been alive. "I was in Hell then. Not my fault."

Lanoire nodded and made an exaggerated show of turning away from Lilah and towards the open appointment book on his desk. "Oh, of course not," he said. "Just tell me what the Senior Partners want us to do."

Lilah stepped toward him, placed an object on his desk. "Wait," she answered. "Just wait. And watch." After she had left, Lanoire looked at the book she had left on his desk.

It was _The Screwtape Letters_.

* * *

"Look at this," Gene said, hunched over the console, busy pushing buttons and throwing switches. "I just need to reprogram the oscillation length of the Ferguson dynamics, and—" He threw one final switch and—yes!—an energy nexus appeared in front of them: a spiraling vortex producing visible electromagnetic radiation throughout the spectrum.

Gene was awarded by the surprised expression on Burkle's face. "An interdimensional rift."

"Isn't it cool?"

Gene was filled with excitement as he watched the shock give way to awe and wonder. "It's beautiful," she said.

He pushed a button and the nexus collapsed upon itself and dissipated. "Our next step is to stabilize it, study it, figure out how to use it."

The way Ms. Burkle cocked her head to look at Gene struck him as rather strange. "Use it?" she asked him.

"Welcome to the world of commercial research," he told her. "Everything has to have a purpose. Just think of the things this type of technology could be used for: interdimensional communications, FTL, alteration of temporal flows. Knowledge for knowledge's sake is a thing of the past, I'm afraid."

The strangeness persisted; perhaps it was the way she moved? "They are looking for a weapon," she said. It was not a question.

"Not necessarily," Gene argued, wanting to get along with her but not knowing how best to respond. "Think of it more as a tool, something to make life easier."

"Still, they seek to enjoy their own power."

"Well, yeah," he conceded. "Who doesn't."

As quickly as it had come, the strangeness had gone, replaced with Ms. Burkle's usual more bubbly demeanor. Still there was something reserved about her as she asked, "You don't think someone could keep fighting with no hope of reward, knowing he is going to fail, just because it is the right thing to do?"

Gene looked at her, wanting to answer in a way which would please her, but having to answer honestly. "I think you'd have to be pretty whacked."

* * *

"So you went to Wolfram & Hart?"

Alec nodded, puffing up his chest to look like a big-time player. And failing miserably. "I thought they might be interested in hearing about a new player in town."

"So what'd they give you?"

Alec smiled, pulled a wad of bills from his pocketing, flipping through them in front of Elvira. She counted them, greedily. There was so much one could buy with that. Of course, one could always just kill somebody and steal whatever one wanted, buyt cash made everything go so much easier. "So what you want, girl? Name it."

Elvira smiled, raising a hand to point to a young woman walking down the pavement across from the two vamps. "Her."

Alec grinned as he went to vampface. "My pleasure."

The two vampires crossed the street, circling the street. Seeing their demonic visages, the girl screamed trying to get away, to no avail. She was reduced to merely spinning around in place, looking for an opening as Alec and Elvira came closer and closer, coming in for the kill. Elvira was so caught up in anticipation of the young girl's body beneath her fangs that she didn't even notice the elderly man on the street until Alec exploded into a blur of dust.

Elvira watched as the old man pulled his wooden cane out of the cloud which must have once been Alec's heart (which had belonged to Elvira, damn it all—and Alec's tidy payout from W&H had turned to dust as well). She turned to face him, keeping her distance from him as she contemplated her options, when he sprang at her, moving so fast she couldn't keep him from plunging the cane into her hurt as well.

Since Alec and Elvira were no more than dust on the ground, there was no one to hear as the young woman's claims of gratitude turned to screams of terror.

**TBC…**


	3. Vinegar in the Winepress

**Title: **Night of the Old One (3/5)  
**Author: **Alixtii  
**Timeline: **Post-NFA. Book I of _Dark Champions_.  
**Spoilers: **All of _Buffy_ and _Angel.  
_**Characters: **Faith, Illyria, Drusilla, Lilah, Andrew.  
**Disclaimer: **Joss owns everything. Yeah, even that.

* * *

Faith didn't know whether she should be insulted or relieved that conversation simply continued when she entered the demon bar. On the one hand, she was the Slayer, and her entrance should have struck fear into every demon in the room. On the other hand, she didn't want a fight; she wanted a drink. She made her way straight to the bar. 

When she got there, she had to do a double-take. She definitely recognized one of the women at the bar, a brunette nursing a pint of some bright orange beverage. Faith slipped into the stool next to her. "What's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?" she asked.

Fred jumped, startled, then turned to see who had spoken. "Faith!" she said, her face lighting up with reconition. "How are you? I haven't seen you since—"

"Yeah. Since Wes' funeral." She turned to the bartender. "My regular, Joe." She looked back to Fred. "So what are you doing in town?"

"I live here now," Fred announced with a proud smile. "I have a job. And they're not evil this time." She paused, a thoughtful frown replacing the smile. "I think. I should really check up on that."

Joe set Faith's rum and coke on the table. "So we're Clevelandites now. I think we can drink to that." She picked it up her drink and held it above her head. "To Hellmouth living."

"To Cleveland," Fred toasted, raising her drink as well. "My new home."

Faith looked again at the bright orange fluid within Fred's glass. "What is that?"

"Nahdran tonic."

"May I?" Fred nodded and handed Faith the drink. The Slayer kicked back a very small amount—only to gag almost immediately. "God, that has a hell of a kick to it."

Fred shrugged and downed the rest of the drink without changing her facial expression. "I'll have another," she announced to Joe. He shrugged at Faith and refilled the glass.

"Have you heard any word from Angel?" Faith asked Fred.

Fred turned serious, shook her head. "Not a word."

"Damn," Faith said, putting down her rum and coke. "Where could he be?"

"There's always the possibility—"

"Don't say it," Faith interjected before Fred could finish. "I don't know what went down in L.A., but whatever it was, Angel got through it. He's a survivor."

Fred nodded. "I hope you're right," she said, clearly unconvinced.

Faith reached over and placed her hand on top of Fred's. "I know I am," she said, but even she could hear the doubt in her own voice.

* * *

Lilah entered the darkness of her apartment, tired from a day of work. It was better far than hell, but seeing how a hot shower was actually an option— 

"Everything's changed, hasn't it?" a voice called out from the shadows. "My two boys messed up your plans, and now the vinegar's in the winepress. Can't go on as before."

Lilah crossed the room in the dark to hang up her jacket in the closet. "The Senior Partners are flexible, Drusilla. The apocalypse goes on."

"Poof!" the vampire said cryptically, standing in the doorway of Lilah's kitchenette. Since the kitchenette light was on, she was backlit—a slender black silhouette among the shadows. She stepped forward, into a stray beam of moonlight, and Lilah saw that Drusilla was wearing a sleek black dress which she supposed must have been the height of style in, say, the 1920's. "The end of the world. Only where's the fun in that?"

"I do what I'm told."

Drusilla smiled, walking closer to Lilah, the glint in her eye present indicating she knew something she wasn't letting on. And since she was both prophetic and insane, that was pretty much all the time. "Such the obedient little evil bitch queen," Drusilla observed. "Of course, you haven't much choice anymore, do you?" she asked, putting a hand to Lilah's neck and pulling away the scarf wrapped around it, revealing the thin scar where Wesley had severed her head.

Lilah quickly recovered the scarf from the vampire, rewrapping it around her neck. But Drusilla was no longer interested in it, her mind already moving on. "Fate is an interesting thing, dear," the vampire said. "It's something that even you and your masters cannot defy, no matter how much you try."

"You see something?" Lilah asked, trying to figure out what the hell Drusilla was trying to get at with what all the cryptic mutterings. The task was more or less hopeless, but she knew she couldn't afford to let a prophecy go unheeded. To much stood in the balance. "What is it?"

Drusilla stepped closer to Lilah, so close their bodies were practically pressing against each other. The vampire leant in and whispered into her ear. "You'd better hide while they have their hands over their eyes. The rules of the game are about to change. Again."

What? It was only about the thirty thousandth time that Lilah had cursed Angel's name (or memory?) but it occurred to her that if Angelus had never made Drusilla mad, she wouldn't have to be going through the trouble of trying to decipher the vampire's ramblings now. "They?" she asked. "The Senior Partners?"

Drusilla's only response was a pout. "I want to hunt."

Knowing that Dru's mind was too nonlinear for Lilah to ever be able to get her to retrace her steps and continue talking about whatever the hell it had been she had been talking about, Lilah simply opted to go with the flow. "Faith is out there, on those streets," she pointed. "And Illyria. There's blood in the fridge."

The vampire's nose wrinkled with disgust. "It's cold."

"Then learn how to work to microwave."

"The machine of plastic and metal?" asked Dru. "It can make it hot, but not warm. It lies when it says it's warm. It's not the warmth of an innocent body, singing out to me." The vampire placed a hand on Lilah's temple, traced the contours of the lawyer's skin down to her neck and collarbone. "A warmth you and I will never again feel in our own blood. The blood sustains, yes, but it is the hunt which nourishes us."

Lilah peeled the vampire off her and pushed her back to a foot away. "It's too dangerous."

The vampire stepped back. "I'll meet them, soon enough. You're counting on it. But not yet. It's too soon. Trust me, I know. I always know."

And with that, the vampire walked to the door and slipped out of the apartment, leaving Lilah alone in the dark of the room. Of course, thought Lilah as she went to switch on the lights. Of course.

* * *

Fred gestured for Joe to refill her glass. "Hey, look lasy. That drink is mystically enhanced. It's designed for demon constitutions." 

"It's all right, Joe," Faith said. "I'll make sure she gets home safe." She turned to Fred and took a good hard look at the physicist. "Man, if I knew you could hold your liquor like that, I would have taken you to Harry's last time I was in L.A."

Fred's eyes didn't quite meet hers. "Last time you were in L.A., I couldn't."

Suddenly, Faith felt like an insensitive fool. "Wes?" she asked softly. Fred didn't answer. "I know what you mean. Have to admit, downed quite a few Jack bottles since the funeral. I mean, Wes was my Watcher. Didn't approve of everything I did—in fact, approved of very little I did for most of the time he knew me. But that didn't matter. What mattered was the that he bothered to have an opinion one way or another. He was really the only one to care even that much. He paid attention no matter what. And now, no once cares anymore. I've lost my audience."

"I'm sure that's not true."

"Here I am on a Hellmouth, and who do they send to watch my back? Geek boy."

Fred just looked at her, not understanding. "Huh?"

"Never mind. It's okay. This way, when I screw up, it won't matter."

"It matters," Fred insisted. "That's when it matters most, 'cause then you are doing it because _you_ know it's the right thing, and not because of anyone else."

Faith nodded. It sounded like the sort of thing Angel would say. She wondered if he had said it, and Fred was just repeating. Of course, look where it had gotten Angel. "But then, when you get down to it, how do you know what's right?" asked Faith. "I don't have the best track record for making decisions, you know."

Fred nodded. "No one knows," she said, throwing back the tonic. "That's what makes life so difficult. And interesting."

* * *

Three bottle blondes stood on the Cleveland street corner, chattering excitedly, one on a cell phone. Drusilla watched them from across the street as they talked on, oblivious to the terrible danger they were in. Cry Baby Bunting, Daddy's gone a-hunting. "I know you are there." 

The man stepped out of the shadows, leaning on his wooden cane for support. "You are perceptive for a half-breed."

"And you fail to see what is right in front of your nose," Dru pointed out. "When you have a nose."

The man looked at her, took a few limping steps towards her. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Drusilla had seen this all before. "I see a vampire who is going to attack some poor unsuspecting mortals. Only, I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

"You want them for yourselves."

The old man's wicked smile gave a quick look into the evil Dru could sense inside. "You have a problem with that."

Drusilla shrugged, uncaring. "Life has not always been kind to me," she said. "Death neither. You rail and you curse, but what shall be inevitably come to pass."

He looked at her as if some portion of what she had said made sense to him. He was mistaken, of course—he looked at the vegetable patch and all he saw were caterpillars. "You," he said. "You see the future."

"It has pomegranates," Drusilla admitted, agreeably. "But the apples—they will rot and die. Turn into mushrooms."

"And you're insane."

Drusilla had to laugh at that "Now you begin to see. But not enough. Not nearly enough."

"Oh?" the man asked, leaning in on his cane towards her. "And just what might I have missed?"

"Your prey," answered Dru. "You don't need their blood. You simply enjoy causing pain, the chaos and the destruction which it brings." Ah, yes, chaos. Tin soldiers falling to a shadow from which they couldn't hide. Completely ignoring the old man's presence, engrossed with the images which flashed across her eyes, Drusilla continued. "Feeling the warm flesh in your hands as you are about to rip it to pieces. So weak, so frail, so mortal. You feel the rush of power as you sink your claws into the skin—"

"Miss?" the elderly gentleman interrupted, breaking Drusilla out of her reverie. She turned and looked at him, surprised to find he was still there.

"You see, the thing is," she said, as she watched the three girls get into a convertible car across the street, behind the gentleman's back, "you've just lost them."

* * *

"This is me," Fred said, as they passed an apartment building. "Home, sweet home." 

"Well," said Faith, searching for something to say, "it was good seeing you again."

"Yeah," agreed Faith as she started up the front steps. "We'll have to plan something."

And then the petite Texan vanished inside the building, and Faith walked on, pulling out her stake and preparing to begin her patrol.

* * *

Illyria unlocked her door and slipped inside her apartment, pausing in front of the mirror as she watched Winifred Burkle's face stare back at her. Fascinating. The Slayer known as Faith had not even realized she was not the shell, just as the shell's progenitors had not done. She had started a new life under the shell's identity, using the shell's qualifications and the knowledge which now reside within Illyria's mind, passed on to the Old One from the shell. And yet she was not the shell. Or rather, she thought as she remembered the rather disturbing nightmare from the night before, Winifred Burkle had passed on, leaving the shell to Illyria. 

"Fascinating," Illyria's voice echoed her thoughts as she watched her hair, eyes, forehead, lips all turn blue in the mirror.

**

* * *

A/N: The meeting between Faith and Illyria-as-Fred at Wesley's funeral mentioned in this chapter can be found in my short story "Funeral" which is a sort of a prelude to this series. **


End file.
